


Pretty Hurts

by LastHighPriestess



Category: The Originals (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Ficlet, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Multi, Other, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-27 07:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12076548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastHighPriestess/pseuds/LastHighPriestess
Summary: Niklaus is bombarded by memories of his childhood.





	Pretty Hurts

**Author's Note:**

> An old ficlet I found while editing some poetry. Inspired by the song of the same name, I have a naive headcanon of Esther Mikaelson not being a completely passive and indifferent mother when her husband was abusing her son. Klarcel is mentioned & if you'd like to question me about my ship of choosing I have an essay prepared ooh boy let me tell ya.

_“My darling, there’s nothing wrong with you.” Her translucent hands curl around either of his plump cheeks. He can’t see her eyes, but her smile beams down at him, the curtains of blonde hair framing her face and just barely whispers against his skin._

  
_“Why does he hate me?” He’s asked her this so many times. Her response is always the same. Silence. Her whole body falls quiet. Chest constricting, limbs stiffen with lack of movement, lack of breathing. She collapses to her knees in front of him, her dress flaring out around her like water or a flower, he can never quite decide. Knelt before him, clutching the boy like a cross, her lips curl into something cruel, far too pitiful to be a smile, as she shakes her thin head in bone-deep defiance._

  
_“Because he is a fool.” She says._

  
Klaus stares at the mirror, crowds into it, feels the granite of counter digging painfully into his abdomen. His eyes haven’t changed back yet, so he stares. The sickly yellow; it’s flecks of gold shrouded by the black solera. He watches the colors lighten, fade, fall gently back to white and green. He bends down and puts his mouth under the faucet, sucks in water and spits out pink made dark by another’s blood. Klaus catches water in his hands and splashes it on his face, rubbing the cool liquid on still tingling skin til it almost resembles scrubbing.

  
The water rolls down his chin and jaw, spirals around his neck. The collar of his shirt soaks it in. Black becomes blacker. He looks towards the mirror again. He hates what stares back.

  
_“Come here.” He does. She sits him down next to her in the grass. Her thin arm pulls him into a sloppy, half-hearted embrace, but its contact nonetheless. More than enough to satisfy this monster for now. She presses a gentle, lingering kiss into the tuffs of his hair, mouth resting in curls with a kind of desperation._

  
_“You, Nikky, are beautiful.” She whispers. “So…beautiful.”_

  
Klaus picks the white t shirt he wore earlier off the bathroom floor. He tosses it into the sink and squirts liquid soap on it. He pushes the faucet up and watches the water pour. The blood doesn’t come out, and so he gives up scrubbing the evidence away. He leaves it in the waste basket.

  
Klaus’ hands presses into the cold glass of mirror. Pale, he thinks. But his lips are as red as they’ve always been. That’s good. Maybe Marcel won’t notice how pale Niklaus has become; he’ll keep him distracted with these lips of his.

  
_He lies with his head cradled in her lap as she cleans the wounds down his back. He doesn’t cry too loudly, at least, he tries not to. She feels his tears soaking into her dress on her thighs. Beautiful creatures do not have to endure aches such as these, he thinks, and so, the boy must not be one._

  
Klaus changes his shirt again because the wetness reminds him of the blood and his stomach feels almost queasy and far too human for his liking. He steals one of Marcel’s grey henleys. It clings snuggly to his lean frame. He twirls slowly to check his appearance from every angle. The black jeans fit nicely, and the high waist brings back memories when all trousers were worn in a similar fashion. Klaus looks down at his bare feet; it feels wrong. Exposed skin is just that, exposed. Klaus leaves the bathroom and enters into Marcel’s, well, their bedroom. Seated on the edge of the bed, he slips on cotton socks, and laced leather boots over them. He doesn’t remember buying these and figures he probably didn’t.

  
_“Hold still, I’ve almost got it.” She is chiding him, but he can’t stop shaking. The rose thorn in his palm, he can’t explain it but it hurts. She is using the nails of her thumb and forefinger like forceps and pulls on the tip of the little green intruder._

  
_He can see her triumphant smile through his tears, and her waving the freed thorn before his face. He looks down at his hand and watches the dot of blood bloom in his palm. She leans down and licks it away, leaving a swift kiss in its place._

  
_“My good little boy.”_

  
Klaus likes the feel of ancient wood beneath his fingers. He likes the chipping paint, the frayed edges, and patches of rough, smooth, rough again. He walks down the stairs, and notes that he cannot hear the creaking of the wood with all this noise. Another party. Day and night walkers communed together in the compound, pressed against each other with laughs and whispers, intoxication from booze, blood, and atmosphere. Klaus can hear Marcel’s easy, booming laughter. He sits at a table with Thierry, Josh, and a couple of others. His back is to Klaus but he knows he’s there, Klaus thinks. But Klaus does not go over to him. He keeps straight and goes to the bar. He says nothing but Nathaniel already knows and pours him a scotch, straight.

  
He doesn’t want to admit that his hand shakes. That he’s been shaking for centuries. Klaus raises the glass to his lips and throws his head back, the burn barely there; his throat healing almost instantly. He settles the tumbler down onto the bar.

  
_“Don’t let them tell you differently, my darling.”_

  
Like a vacuumed explosion, the glass shatters in his hand, bits falling over his fingers like diamonded confetti, but the large chunks of clear crystal settle into his palm. Niklaus does not notice.

  
“Klaus stop breaking my glasses, they’re antiques.” Marcel is teasing, smile sitting lazily on his lips. He doesn’t register the stillness of Klaus’ body. No one does until they hear the soft whine in his throat. “Klaus?” Marcel pushes back from the table, metal scrapping on concrete. He rushes over to Klaus pulling him into his arms.

  
_“Stop crying.” He barks. The man looms over him, switch clutched in beefy hands. The boy shakes, curled into himself in the corner like he’s trying to burrow into the floorboards. It crashes down onto his skin again, rips flesh open; draws blood. “I said, ‘stop crying’ swine.”_

  
But he can’t. The tears are heavy streaks down his face as he trembles, unstable on these unfaithful legs, and gasps for air because he can’t breathe, hasn’t be able to for centuries and right now, his lungs need something to fill them.

  
Klaus twists in Marcel’s embrace and buries his face into the other’s chest. He sobs are no longer silent, and the muffled, aching sounds are audible to all there.  
“Everyone out. Now!” As the dozens of feet shuffle together to their respective exits, Marcel settles the two of them on the Compound floor, holds Niklaus with all his strength in one arm, and digs the other through his jacket until he finds his cellphone. He calls Rebekah, and she and Elijah arrive in minutes.

  
Rebekah kneels before him, and Klaus is reminded of his mother. He cries harder. He hears variations of the same name, all from far off. Nik, Nikky, Niklaus. He knows which one belongs to whom. Nonetheless, he does not answer them. He does not trust himself to speak. His words would simply be variations of, “let me die”. And none of them would want to hear that.


End file.
